


Blind

by blastitlouder



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom!Perceptor, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment, Riding Crops, Sensory Deprivation, Sex, Smut, Sub!Drift, Trust, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastitlouder/pseuds/blastitlouder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your bindings today are fragile and they will break if you squirm too much. If I find a single frayed seam in this ribbon, you will be punished. Now, do you remember the safeword?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riotbreaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riotbreaker/gifts).



> Written as a Valentine's Day gift for my fabulously wonderful and supportive girlfriend, Kikas (riotbreaker).
> 
> This is a BDSM-content story with a Dom!Perceptor and a Sub!Drift, so if that's not your cup of tea, you have been warned!

Systems were slow to cycle online, optics the first of the many systems to power up. Except it was still dark. Drift cycled his vents and rebooted the system, a low rumble escaping him when he realized the reboot had done nothing to clear the darkness. The system diagnostic ran unbidden and came back clean; nothing was wrong, and yet he still saw nothing. With an annoyed grunt, he got up to go and fumble his way through the hallway to visit Ratchet.  


At least, that had been his plan, right up until he realized his legs were bound. His entire frame went on alert, cables tensing and plating rattling as he shifted, ready to rise and tear at the bonds to strike—  


A hushing noise reached his oversensitive audios and he froze in his attempts to break free, the brush of a familiar field brushing against his own for a brief moment. The swordsmech smiled despite himself, squirming a little as the field retreated from his and clung close to the other mech in the room.  


“Perceptor, is that you?” he asked, twisting his neck to blindly regard the space where he estimated the sniper to be. His approximation turned out wrong as a mouth pressed a light kiss to his audio, a warm nudge of a field playing against his back struts.  


“If it were anyone else,” Perceptor replied, “I would be rather concerned in your situation.” There was a noise, the tap of pedes circling the berth before Perceptor’s servos returned, fiddling with something behind Drift’s helm. A moment later and his optics were flooded with light, the feedback stinging as he reset the sensor suite. Perceptor was standing before him, a smile on his faceplates and a thick red strap between his fingers. A blindfold, that was a new way to wake up.  


“Good morning, Drift.”  


“Mornin’.” He squirmed a little, trying to shift enough to examine himself, before Perceptor’s servo came down on his helm, holding him still with a gentle touch.  


“You will not move,” the former scientist informed him, the touch melting into a slow petting motion as Drift settled and relaxed. He knew this tone, was already conditioned to respond to it without question. The servo on his helm traced down to pick through his neck cables, following each to their destination from its neighbor. “Your bindings today are fragile and they will break if you squirm too much. If I find a single frayed seam in this ribbon,“—the servo at his throat stopped and tapped at his faceplates, Perceptor’s smile adopting an intensity usually unseen—“you will be punished. Now, you remember the safeword?”  


Drift nodded mutely, his processor already slipping into routine. Permission to speak must be granted and compounding punishments on top of such a hefty order to avoid them already would not be wise. There was a twitch in Perceptor’s smile and he nodded.  


“What is the word, Drift?”  


Permission granted.  


“It’s ‘Dante’s Inferno’,” he replied, returning to silence as Perceptor nodded in agreement.  


“Very good.” The servos came down again and pressed into Drift’s shoulders. He shifted and turned under the gentle guidance until Perceptor released him. The sniper nodded again and Drift took the chance to examine himself before Perceptor decided to resume his plans.  


Just as he’d said, Drift was bound with a grand length of red ribbon, the fabric slashing bright lines across his white plating as they crossed and wove together. His legs were pinned at the ankles and knees, forcing his legs into a neat cross sit. The ribbon drew back up to tie his arms down, pinning them to his sides with an aesthetic series of loops and crossovers. The ribbon ceased before it reached his neck, save for the piece Perceptor still held in hand.  


“Do you have any complaints, Drift?” He was pulled from his contemplation as the sniper spoke and Drift was quick to shake his helm in the negative. Perceptor smiled and bent over, his servos coming to return the blindfold to Drift’s optics. A moment of shifting and his optics were blinded again, his other senses heightening to make up for the lack.  


“Remember, Drift. One single frayed seam…” A firm pressure of metal in his hip joint, a well-learned texture; Perceptor’s crop and the inherent warning sent a spark down Drift’s struts. He nodded and listened as the pedes tapped out a staccato path across the floor before returning to the berth’s side.  


“Open.” The command was a stern tone, wrapped in velvet and steel bows, and Drift had no illusions of disobeying it. His mouth and panel opened in a unified motion, the lack of clarification demanding conscientiousness. There was a quiet purr and the pleased wash of approval from the sniper’s field before it vanished again, leaving Drift wanting more than the brief tastes he’d be receiving.  


“Your spike is already pressurized?” Perceptor remarked. The tone gave away nothing of his mood, the light pressure of a digit pressing down against the tip more of an indicator than anything else. Drift hissed and tried to keep his hips from tilting up into the sensation. “You must be anticipating something, Drift. Care to tell me?”  


A trap, though no one else would recognize it for one. Drift shook his helm again, his field blossoming and aching to catch whatever of Perceptor he could. He knew it reeked of need and anxious curiosity, but it was less likely to get him into trouble than words. There was a flash of a feeling and the digit was removed. A low noise escaped him, an aborted whine, and Drift’s sensor suites sought out any hint of where Perceptor had gone without that anchoring touch.  


There was a stretch of nothingness, the edge of anticipation sharp and scraping against his processor as the silence filled with his own fans consumed him. He had taught Perceptor how to move silently; perhaps the sniper had taken advantage of this training to leave him in limbo. It had happened before.  


The moment of worry was shattered as something pressed against his valve, a chill of external lubricant mingling with the warm start of his own. A moment of resistance and Drift choked on a groan, a slender object pushing inside of him with Perceptor’s token patience behind it. There was a fleeting moment of satisfaction before Drift realized how thin it was. Too thin to properly grip down on, no matter how hard he tried, and no way to gain any friction. His voiced his displeasure with a proper groan, the sound bubbling into the air.  


He was rewarded for the slip with the hissing cut of a crop through the atmosphere, the stab of contact registering slower than the motion itself. Drift swallowed and repressed the yelp, the pain from the swat blooming into a burn on his plating.  


“You know the rules, Drift,” Perceptor said, the slight tinge of disappointment in his tone aching worse than the crop. “That was a warning.” The fingers returned to the edge of his valve, tracing the edge of the valve before pushing the slender device in the last of the way. “Now close your valve cover. Take care not to pinch my fingers this time.”  


Drift obeyed, cycling the cover down and waiting until he felt the absence of heat to close it entirely. The device’s function was clarified before he could internally question it, the presence in his valve waking from dormancy to vibrate intensely. There was a moment of static in the air as Drift forcibly muted the moan. Perceptor’s chuckle drowned it out.  


“Do not overload until I say.” A favorite command, but simultaneously one of the worst to receive. Drift nodded in reply, helpless to do other than obey. Perceptor rewarded his acknowledgment by allowing his field to creep out to caress Drift’s. It was unfair that his could remain so calm and soothing while Drift could taste the jagged edges of arousal in his own. He latched onto the cooler presence and drank it in, a smile crossing his face unbidden.  


The vibrations increased as Perceptor drew his field back and the pedes tapped away from the berth. Drift’s helm twisted, trying to catch the sound’s location before it faded away. Still in the room somewhere. Watching.  


A flush of heat cascaded through his circuits and his hips jutted upward, the vibrator inside him shifting and buzzing against his waking nodes. His vents cycled on without further ado, his systems heating rapidly as the vibrator’s intensity varied according to Perceptor’s whims. Somewhere in the room, hidden from his optics, Perceptor was turning a dial, optics locked onto Drift’s form. He was operating him like finicky lab equipment, like he was a particularly fascinating experiment.  


Was he smirking at the mess Drift was making, lubricant already pooling behind his cover? Were his optics locked onto the shutter that begged to cycle open to take something thicker, something more satisfying? Maybe he was calculating the precise Fibonacci sequences the trickle of fluid escaping the cover was making on the berth’s surface.  


Drift keened in his mind as his hips bucked and squirmed, seeking contact that wasn’t there even as the ribbon rasped against his plates and held him still. It was maddening, the vibrations making his legs twitch in their fragile prison as his charge continued to rise and taint his field. Maybe Perceptor wasn’t just watching. Seeing Drift squirming and shuddering in silence on the berth, wrapped up like a human present with his field going berserk…perhaps that was enough to entice Perceptor to unlock his own panel. Maybe somewhere in the room, as the vibrations reached their peak nudging against his ceiling node, Perceptor was palming his servo over a pressurizing spike, slipping fingers into a dripping valve…  


The thought was too much. His overload crashed into Drift like a tidal wave, a hoarse yell escaping his throat as he arched and clawed at the berth. Transfluid spattered against his abdomen, searing where it landed as his valve clenched down on the vibrator to anchor the torturous sensations inside him. The pleasure glowed through his system, tingling heat and release fuzzing his processor as his field flared and wavered, the edges touching on the cooler presence of charge somewhere to his left. His optics rebooted under the blindfold as his processor floated down from the high, lazily noticing the sudden lack of vibrations. He could feel Perceptor’s field, the controlled element nearly a solid ice wall looming in his periphery.  


Just as quickly as it had hit him, the overload washed out of his systems and was replaced by the stark blanch of terror, the all-consuming fear of Perceptor’s disappointment overriding his slowly returning sense.  


“Perceptor, Primus, I’m sorry! I—“  


The ice wall devoured his field in an instant, the sound of motion delayed as Drift’s senses stalled. A servo found his throat, the pressure of Perceptor’s fingertips lighter than feathers silencing him more effectively than any fist had.  


“Drift.” The measured tone shot through Drift’s processor and he felt his entire frame sag into the berth. “You disobeyed my orders. Not once, but twice. You overloaded,”—the second servo appeared at Drift’s spike, squeezing the mess roughly—“and you spoke out of turn. You know the punishment for this.”  


Drift nodded mutely, his mouth pressed into a rigid line. This blip of silence was an opportunity to escape the punishment and the idea of the safeword had completely fled his processor. He had defied orders and disappointed Perceptor. The following punishment was well-deserved and he dared not insult either of them with the notion of tapping out.  


The second of grace vanished with Perceptor’s servos from his frame, the silent mingling of their fields—cold control and roiling shameful heat—replaced by the hum of the crop through the air. A few practice swings and Drift was already on edge from the false expectation of pain. Blinded, he relied on his audios.  


The first strike was quick and stern, catching Drift by surprise as it landed and spread fire on the expanse of his pelvic armor just above his spike. He vented harshly, resisting the instinct to cry out. The second, third, fourth, and fifth blows came quicker, overlapping the edges of the others until a thick stripe of stinging plating bisected his pelvic span. A low hum and Perceptor stopped, leaving Drift to the paranoia of blindness.  


There was a moment where Drift’s struggling vents were the only noise before the punishment resumed. A click sounded through the air, the vibrator suddenly reactivated. Drift swallowed his howl, hips arching up with need as the crop came back down, cracking over the left side of his chassis. The strikes seemed to generate from everywhere after that as Drift’s processor lost the ability to keep up with the dual sensations. Brands of the crop scattered across his frame, metal stinging and scraping under the overlapping blows, and the vibrator buzzed and harangued his nodes until he wasn’t sure he could feel anything beyond blind throbbing pleasure in his valve.  


The blows ceased at last, the number unknown and the final strike barely a whisper against his scored and heated plating. Drift’s vents ran ragged as it struggled to cool his systems back down and somewhere in the midst of it all, his spike had repressurized. The vibrations dialed down to a tolerable level as Perceptor’s field wavered, the ice crackling with restrained heat.  


“Very good,” he said, vocals straining to maintain the illusion of distance. “You did very well, Drift.” The swordsmech gulped and nodded, his vents roaring in his audios. The berth shifted underneath him and his helm tilted to stare sightlessly at the space above him. He could feel the field, almost stifling him, and the hovering sensation of plating just out of reach.  


“However, I do not want there to be another…accident.” Fingers around his spike’s tip, directing something down and around the shaft…Drift felt a combination of arousal and embarrassment. The overload inhibitor had been determined obsolete ages ago; its return was a blow to his pride of self-control. “You’ve done well for your first time with the blindfold, considering how finely tuned your senses are.”  


The digits never left his spike and Drift felt his anticipation build as another click filled the air, the vibrations in his valve increasing to a warm purr. Perceptor’s weight hovered over his chassis, the heat of his punishment hanging between them as the sniper pressed a kiss to his forehelm. The light pressure dragged a staggered vent and a squirm from the bound mech, a question hanging in his throat.  


His thoughts cut off as he felt a wet heat nudge against his spike before lowering, the obscene squelch of lubricant and motion combining together as Perceptor sunk onto Drift’s spike. His fingers clawed at the berth again, begging his vocals to remain silent. The imagined image of Perceptor perched on his spike was plastered before unseeing optics and he rolled his hips in need.  


“None of that now,” Perceptor snapped, his tone breathy as his servo pressed against a sore armor panel. “I am going to ride you until I overload. And if you behave, I will allow the same pleasure. Do you understand?” Drift nodded frantically.  


“You may speak.”  


“Primus, Perce, do what you want,” Drift gasped out, the release of sound nearly as explosive as his overload had been. “Just please do it!” Somewhere above his chest, Perceptor laughed and drew his hips up, taking his time and allowing the lubricant smeared across Drift’s spike to cool before dropping himself back down with a satisfied noise.  


“I will take as long as I like,” he said, raising himself back up with the same excruciating slowness, valve squeezing in calculated motions that tore ragged groans from Drift’s vocals. “Displease me and you’ll be nothing more than a hard spike to finish me off.” And down he went, grinding against the base of Drift’s spike with a muffled whimper.  


“Oh Primus, please—“  


“Keep me happy and the inhibitor will come off.” Another breath of laughter, a light kiss at the corner of his mouth as that valve kept tormenting him with heat and pressure, and Drift wondered just how long he was supposed to last. “Now don’t move.”  


Fingers digging into the berth, Drift obeyed. Perceptor’s vents clicked on as he took his pleasure, little mewls and groans escaping him as he continued the slow process of rising and falling on Drift’s spike. It took all of Drift’s control to keep his hips still after the sniper’s warning, so his panting moans fell freely as Perceptor’s slow ride finally started to escalate.  


Another pause taken to grind against Drift’s plating, lubricant slipping and painting over the stinging marks, was enough to force Drift to his second overload. The charge washed back over his circuits as he was denied release, the strangled cry drawing a quiet laugh from Perceptor.  


“A wise choice, I see…” he murmured, pressing his chassis down against Drift’s. The weight and scrape of the sniper’s chest against his sent tendrils of pain through his systems, adding to the ache of denied overload. The press of his chest became his servos as the sniper decided he wanted more, his hips gyrating over Drift’s before increasing his tempo.  


Drift panted out a garbled reply to the jibe, his optics resetting under the blindfold. He wanted to see, wanted to touch, but all he could do was lie and listen to Perceptor using him like a living spike replica. Another rush of heat in his circuits and the image of Perceptor just leaving him here, tied up and waiting crossed his processor. Unable to do anything but wait for Perceptor to return to use his spike as he see fit again and again…the moan it dragged from him was embarrassingly loud.  


Perceptor, apparently, wasn’t far off from his own overload, if the frantic squeezing of his valve was any indication. Drift squirmed his hips, unable to keep entirely still at the idea.  


“P-Perce, I want to see you overload,” he managed, vocals stuttering on him as the sniper’s valve gave a particularly demanding squeeze. “Please, Primus, let me—“The vibrator’s intensity shot up suddenly, silencing any further conversation.  
> “Drift, oh Primus…” Perceptor moaned, his rhythm degenerating as the swordsmech groan rent the air. “I’m almost there~ I’m going to—“  


Drift’s field surged around him, the overwhelming arousal in his system battering against Perceptor’s cracked control of his own, worming in to mesh with the sniper’s field. A loud cry escaped him and Perceptor’s attempt to rise collapsed as his legs gave out under the force of his overload, valve clamping down onto Drift’s abused spike. The sniper hips juddered in shallow thrusts as he rode out the pleasure, tiny noises of satisfaction bubbling from vocals to rest in Drift’s audios. At last, the sniper stilled his motions, lubricant splattered between them and transfluid cooling somewhere on Drift’s chassis.  


“V-Very good, Drift,” Perceptor managed, remaining balanced as his servos slid up Drift’s chest. “Good boy...I think you’ll deserve your reward.”  


“Oh Primus, please…”  


Fingers found his chin and snuck behind his helm, the fiddling from earlier returning. Drift felt a surge of gratefulness as the blindfold was released, sliding past his optics as they readjusted to the light. Perceptor rebalanced himself, smirking and looking utterly debauched on top of him.  


“How close are you, Drift?” he asked, rocking his hips lazily. The swordsmech hissed and canted his pelvic span as much as he dared.  


“Perceptor, please let me overload…I’m going to explode…” The begging went disregarded, Perceptor’s expression shifting from smug to amused.  


“Oh, are you? What if I said no?” His valve squeezed and another roll of his frame drew an obscene noise from his soaking valve. Drift’s optics brightened and Perceptor’s smirk grew a bit wider. “What if I left you here and left you needy? How long until you only cared about letting me ride you to my content?” The chill shot down his struts and Drift didn’t attempt to hold back his whimper of delight.  


“But I’m not so mean…” Perceptor nodded and reached for something on his hip, a small box. The vibrator control, Drift determined, as the vibrations went through the roof again, drawing a stifled cry from the swordsmech. “I’ll let you overload for being such a good boy…”  


The sniper ground his hips down, working his valve against Drift’s spike as he released the inhibitor between them. A half-sob of relief as the torment was taken away and Drift felt his overload rising again. The vibrations singing in his valve and Perceptor’s continued shifting brought him to the end quicker than anticipated, his yell drowning out his partner’s noise of pleasure as he overloaded. His frame sank back into the berth, limbs aching and fingers twitching as his optics reset. Perceptor continued to squirm on his spike, optics dimming as he peered between them.  


“Look at that, Drift…filled me right up to the brim, didn’t you?” The flickering smirk held and the soft praise continued to fall from his vocals as he shifted off Drift’s spike. Transfluid dripped from his valve as he moved, servos working at the hidden knots and twists of the ribbons.  


“You did wonderfully, love.” Perceptor pressed a kiss to Drift’s forehead, the swordsmech replying with a short bark of laughter.  


“Not that I didn’t enjoy it,” he murmured, sitting up a little as Perceptor unbound his arms and took his arm into his talented servos, “but what’s the occasion?”  


“It is a human holiday,” Perceptor replied, massaging Drift’s joints as they came loose. He offered the other mech a smile before moving to remove the binds on his legs. “It is called Valentine’s Day and it usually involves pampering or sucking up to one’s significant other.”  


“Well, we didn’t have a fight,” Drift mused, hissing as his legs were finally free. Perceptor kissed a knee apologetically before working on the sore joints. “That was wonderful…the blindfold was—“  


“New?”  


“—more intense than I’d thought it would be.”  


Joints loosened and duty done, Perceptor crawled back up to Drift’s side, catching his chin in one servo for a chaste kiss.  


“Good.” Perceptor held up the red ribbon, showing off a distinctly ragged tear in a section to Drift. “Because you will be wearing it again when I punish you for this.”


End file.
